He caught the sway of the pacing figure whose shadow moved in regular rhythm across the yellow shades.  It entered his mind, clung there, and finally he began to pace in the same cadence, up and down the room.  With every step he felt that he was entering deeper into the danger which threatened John Woodbury.  What danger?  For answer to himself he stepped to the windows and pulled down the shades.  At least he could be alone.

CHAPTER VI

JOHN BARD

There is no cleanser of the mind like a morning bath.  The same cold, whipping spray which calls up the pink blood, glowing through the marble of the skin, drives the ache of sleep from the brain, and washes away at once all the recorded thoughts of yesterday.  So in place of a crowded slate of wonders and doubts, Anthony bore down to the breakfast table a willingness to take what the morning might bring and forget the night before.

John Woodbury was already there, helping himself from the covered dishes, for the meal was served in the English style.  There was the usual “Good-morning, sir,” “Good-morning, Anthony,” and then they took their places at the table.  A cautious survey of the craglike face of his father showed no traces of a sleepless night; but then, what could a single night of unrest mean to that body of iron?

He ventured, remembering the implied command to remain within the house until further orders:  “You asked me to speak to you, sir, before I left the house.  I’d rather like to take a ride this morning.”

And the imperturbable voice replied:  “You’ve worn your horses out lately.  Better give them a day of rest.”

That was all, but it brought back to Anthony the thought of the shadow which had swept ceaselessly across the yellow shades of his father’s room; and he settled down to a day of reading.  The misty rain of the night before had cleared the sky of its vapours, so he chose a nook in the library where the bright spring sun shone full and the open fire supplied the warmth.  At lunch his father did not appear, and Peters announced that the master was busy in his room with papers.  The afternoon repeated the morning, but with less unrest on the part of Anthony.  He was busy with L’Assommoir, and lost himself in the story of downfall, surrounding himself with each unbeautiful detail.

Lunch was repeated at dinner, for still John Woodbury seemed to be “busy with papers in his room.”  A fear came to Anthony that he was to be dodged indefinitely in this manner, deceived like a child, and kept in the house until the silent drama was played out.  But when he sat in the library that evening his father came in and quietly drew up a chair by the fire.  The stage was ideally set for a confidence, but none was forthcoming.  The fire shook long, sleepy shadows through the room, the glow of the two floor-lamps picked out two circles of light, and still the elder man sat over his paper and would not speak.